I will say one good and one bad thing about Paris. Good: when you go to a restaurant, they give you a whole pitcher/ container of water with your meal. In the US, you have to call the waiter over every time you want your glass refilled. Bad: I’ve stepped in dog shit three times since I’ve been here. You have to keep your head on a swivel or it’ll get you. 

That’s enough about the city. It’s a famous place that you know much about. Stylish socialites at cafes and such. And you know, I’m actually not much of a city person or a tourist. When I’m alone in a city, I feel overwhelmed and anxious.

The temptations and conveniences can also be a bit harmful to my health. 

However, big cities can be fun for me if I have friends or a companion to explore with. 

I would have avoided this recent trip to Paris if I had the option, but I was there for a time-pressured mission. I lost my yearly black market safe house guide… 

For typical, law-abiding time travelers, there are designated places to stay and store your machines. It’s a very bureaucratic process to go on a vacation to the past. Your paperwork and visas need to be up to date and accurate. And then you need to adhere to the regulations and sanctioned tours and accommodations.

Me, well, I stopped obtaining visas long ago. I’m a rogue traveler. So I need to keep my distance from the tourist time travel industry. If I’m spotted, I’ll be arrested and deported back to the 26th century. 

Anyway, I was in Paris to find a coordinate that would grant me safe passage in my time travels for the coming six months. I didn’t know whether this coordinate was a person, item, or pull-out sofa in a crack house studio apartment. 

These are the times that make me want to go straight… Searching the city for the coordinate named “Hawk Flesh 22” had me wandering the streets, aimlessly scouring the streets for a sign. If only I had a travel visa…. 

Through the streets I went. Mind stained with hazed and cratered anxious stagnation. When will this cycle break loose…